ran down here with a couple of the head shots from the M.E.’s Office, and the housekeeper breaks up on us as soon as she sees the photos.”
“Who is—”
“Lady’s name is Denise Caxton. Lives — well, lived — at 890 Fifth Avenue. Ever hear of her?” Chapman wanted to know.
“No. Why?”
“She and the husband own an art gallery, same place where you get your roots done.”
“The Fuller Building?” I asked. Madison Avenue at Fiftyseventh Street — the crossroads of the art world, as the owner of my salon liked to call it.
“Yeah, the Caxton Gallery occupies the entire top floor.”
I could hear the background conversation between Mike’s partner and the tearful woman as Mike whispered into the phone. “You wouldn’t believe this apartment — five-bedroom duplex, with a modern art collection that most museums would kill for.”
“So,
did
they? And where’s Mr. Caxton?”
“The housekeeper doesn’t know. Denise split with him — Lowell Caxton — a few months back. They both still share the apartment — separate entrances and living quarters — but there’s no sign that he’s in town. And she says there’s nothing to suggest any foul play in the apartment, either.”
“Want me to come over and—”
“Forget about it. Hazel’s giving us the boot. Won’t let us look around or touch anything. Not till she gets her orders from Monsieur Caxton.”
“Any date book, calendar — to trace back the deceased’s movements?”
“All on computer, Coop, and she’s not letting us anywhere near that room or any of the equipment.”
“Can you secure the apartment until I can get a warrant to search it?” I asked.
“You bet your ass we’ll have to. Any of this stuff disappears, we’ll all be nailed to the wall. I’ve sent for some uniformed guys to watch each of the entrances, just to keep the place buttoned up tight.
“And get your beauty sleep, blondie. I have the distinct feeling that you and I will be dancing together on this one. If there’s one motive for every million hanging on these walls, we’re gonna be busy.”
6
“Think about it for a minute,” Chapman urged me. “
Rebecca
? Domestic violence.
Notorious
? Domestic violence.
Gaslight
? Domestic violence.
Dial M for Murder
? Domestic violence.
Niagara
? Domestic violence. Every one of your favorite movies has some kind of spousal abuse in it, you know? What does that say about you, blondie?”
I was staring at a Monet hanging in the Caxton living room. I had never seen any painting from the water lily series in private hands, and here was a glorious canvas, practically as large as the triptych that hangs in the Museum of Modern Art, stretching the length of the wall.
“
The Postman Always Rings Twice
? Domestic violence.
Double Indemnity
? Domes—”
“Yeah, now you’re getting to the good ones. The ladies strike back, Mikey. Those are the ones I
really
enjoy.” I walked over to Mercer, who was studying the signature in the corner of the painting.
“Is this for real?” he asked me.
I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “I assume so. I played around on the Internet for a couple of hours last night after Mike called me with the I.D., and it seems the Caxton collection is world famous. A lot of it has been in the family for generations.”
Mercer and I were moving around the forty-foot-long room like it was a gallery in the Louvre. Each painting and object was museum quality, and I was fascinated by their beauty and number.
Chapman was sitting on a sofa facing the stunning view of Central Park, watching as the housekeeper delivered coffee and English muffins to the table in front of him, pouring from a Georgian server that was worth our collective salaries for at least the next couple of years.
“Thanks, Valerie. I was starving.” Chapman gave the redeyed woman his best grin and began slathering butter on the toasted morsel he had picked up from the plate. “Valerie makes these from scratch,
“Who is—”
“Lady’s name is Denise Caxton. Lives — well, lived — at 890 Fifth Avenue. Ever hear of her?” Chapman wanted to know.
“No. Why?”
“She and the husband own an art gallery, same place where you get your roots done.”
“The Fuller Building?” I asked. Madison Avenue at Fiftyseventh Street — the crossroads of the art world, as the owner of my salon liked to call it.
“Yeah, the Caxton Gallery occupies the entire top floor.”
I could hear the background conversation between Mike’s partner and the tearful woman as Mike whispered into the phone. “You wouldn’t believe this apartment — five-bedroom duplex, with a modern art collection that most museums would kill for.”
“So,
did
they? And where’s Mr. Caxton?”
“The housekeeper doesn’t know. Denise split with him — Lowell Caxton — a few months back. They both still share the apartment — separate entrances and living quarters — but there’s no sign that he’s in town. And she says there’s nothing to suggest any foul play in the apartment, either.”
“Want me to come over and—”
“Forget about it. Hazel’s giving us the boot. Won’t let us look around or touch anything. Not till she gets her orders from Monsieur Caxton.”
“Any date book, calendar — to trace back the deceased’s movements?”
“All on computer, Coop, and she’s not letting us anywhere near that room or any of the equipment.”
“Can you secure the apartment until I can get a warrant to search it?” I asked.
“You bet your ass we’ll have to. Any of this stuff disappears, we’ll all be nailed to the wall. I’ve sent for some uniformed guys to watch each of the entrances, just to keep the place buttoned up tight.
“And get your beauty sleep, blondie. I have the distinct feeling that you and I will be dancing together on this one. If there’s one motive for every million hanging on these walls, we’re gonna be busy.”
6
“Think about it for a minute,” Chapman urged me. “
Rebecca
? Domestic violence.
Notorious
? Domestic violence.
Gaslight
? Domestic violence.
Dial M for Murder
? Domestic violence.
Niagara
? Domestic violence. Every one of your favorite movies has some kind of spousal abuse in it, you know? What does that say about you, blondie?”
I was staring at a Monet hanging in the Caxton living room. I had never seen any painting from the water lily series in private hands, and here was a glorious canvas, practically as large as the triptych that hangs in the Museum of Modern Art, stretching the length of the wall.
“
The Postman Always Rings Twice
? Domestic violence.
Double Indemnity
? Domes—”
“Yeah, now you’re getting to the good ones. The ladies strike back, Mikey. Those are the ones I
really
enjoy.” I walked over to Mercer, who was studying the signature in the corner of the painting.
“Is this for real?” he asked me.
I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “I assume so. I played around on the Internet for a couple of hours last night after Mike called me with the I.D., and it seems the Caxton collection is world famous. A lot of it has been in the family for generations.”
Mercer and I were moving around the forty-foot-long room like it was a gallery in the Louvre. Each painting and object was museum quality, and I was fascinated by their beauty and number.
Chapman was sitting on a sofa facing the stunning view of Central Park, watching as the housekeeper delivered coffee and English muffins to the table in front of him, pouring from a Georgian server that was worth our collective salaries for at least the next couple of years.
“Thanks, Valerie. I was starving.” Chapman gave the redeyed woman his best grin and began slathering butter on the toasted morsel he had picked up from the plate. “Valerie makes these from scratch,
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